Page 125 of The Clinch
She doesn’t look convinced.
“You rebuilt your whole life from scratch. You worked nights, got into NYU, and kept standing. You really think classes are the thing that takes you out?”
She takes that in without answering.
“I don’t know how to not be a nurse.”
“You’ll still be a nurse. You’re just becoming a doctor too.”
“It’s not the same.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “In there, I knew who I was.”
She doesn’t finish.
I squeeze her knee once. “Now you step into something new.”
She leans her head back against the seat.
“Okay.”
She doesn’t sound sure.
My place iscool when we walk in. The city hum stays outside with the click of the lock.
“You’re done,” I say.
She drops her bag by the door and leans back against the wall, eyes closing. Her fingers brush the ring like she’s checking whether it’s still there.
“Done,” she echoes.
Then she opens her eyes. “I’m not going to see my parents next week. I’m staying in New York.”
I step closer. “Here?”
“If that’s okay.”
“It’s more than okay.”
“I’ll have the place to myself most of the time.”
The realization seems to land as she says it. The first week in months with no work and no me to orbit around.
“You’ll be okay?” I ask carefully.
“I don’t know,” she admits. “I’ll cook, I guess.”
I guide her toward the kitchen and open the fridge. Two labeled containers come out of a row already stacked with the rest.
“Meals are handled,” I say.
She narrows her eyes. “Handled by whom?”
“My nutritionist and a meal service.” I set the containers on the counter. “Try it. If you hate it, we change it.”
I plate the food. Chicken, potatoes, vegetables.
She eats, then looks up with reluctant approval. “This is really good.”
“Good.”
